Twice I walked with dinosaurs poem

One summer we found

a dead baby shark

washed up on the beach,

cut it open with a dinner knife

from the house,

and performed an

outdoor autopsy.1

As we marveled

at its

miniature anatomy,

reveled

in the smallness

of each little organ,

seagulls circled overhead.

The ocean was quiet,

barely making waves.

It kept vigil

for its tiny causality.

The spring prior,

an alligator wandered

onto the beach during my

uncle’s second wedding.

It was far enough away

to merit an absence of fear, but

nobody took photos or said

a word— we just stared

as it settled itself in the surf,

hoping to be cleansed.

yóu can speak tó no one, replíed the kní